


A Tale of Bunny and Stone; Touch Like a Prayer, Like Loneliness

by beauty_love_stardust



Series: A Tale of Bunny and Stone Series [1]
Category: 13 Reasons Why (TV)
Genre: Altered Mental States, Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Porn, Angst with a Happy Ending, Barebacking, Canonical Character Death, Chronal Disassociation, Cliffs of Insanity, Codependency, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Porn, Emotional Roller Coaster, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Falling In Love, Grief/Mourning, Healing Sex, Heavy Angst, Horny Teenagers, Hurt/Comfort, I Don't Even Know, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Insanity, Kissing, Loss of Virginity, Lost Love, Lust, Mental Anguish, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Multiple Personalities, Obsessive Behavior, Obsessive-Compulsive, Past Sexual Abuse, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-High School, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Rape Recovery, Romantic Soulmates, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Doubt, Self-Esteem Issues, Sex, Sexual Tension, Teenagers, Touch-Starved, Touching, Triggers, True Love, Twisted, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Vaginal Sex, What Have I Done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:00:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24678085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beauty_love_stardust/pseuds/beauty_love_stardust
Summary: There isn't supposed to be all of this emptiness inside of them both ... but in their lives it feels like it won't ever end ...Clay isn't sure how to take care of her. He doesn't know if he's strong enough ... but Justin made him promise he would, before he went ...(Post S4 spoilers, you've been warned.)(Bonus Fanvid at the end.)
Relationships: Hannah Baker/Clay Jensen, Jessica Davis/Clay Jensen, Jessica Davis/Justin Foley
Series: A Tale of Bunny and Stone Series [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1858612
Comments: 18
Kudos: 23





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _The final season was alot guys! Holy Shit! By the end I was so devastated and depressed I started writing this, and basically haven't stopped since then. I have always loved the idea of pairing Clay and Jess, even before that insane finale! It really just made me ship them all the more. They are such a toxic duo. I hope you enjoy this work! There are lots and lots of triggers, probably more than I've listed, so be warned, this is going to be an emotional rollercoaster if you decide to read it! As of right now this is a one-shot, but I may decide to expand on it in the future. Who knows? But in the meantime, please enjoy, lovelies!_
> 
> _  
> **UPDATE: Someone told me I should add my fanvids into my works, so I added one in as a little bonus, at the bottom! I made this one around the same time that I wrote this fanfic!**  
> _

**_A Tale of Bunny and Stone; Touch Like a Prayer, Like Loneliness._ **

* * *

> _Death is not the greatest loss_
> 
> _of life. The greatest loss is_
> 
> _what dies inside us while we_
> 
> _live._

* * *

This is all there is now – **_death_**.

It’s a destructive miscreant that eats at Clay’s insides until that’s all there _is_ … all that’s **_there_**.

This is what it feels like to have a piece of your soul eaten _alive_ … to have that same piece die, **_inside_** you.

He understands it now, understands what Hannah meant by dying a little, every single day – over and over …

Every day he’d watched a little bit more of Justin slip away. His body had paled and weakened. The frailty of his skin had shone his veins underneath.

And Jess – _God_ … **_Jess_** …

He watched her mourn for the boy she loved, while he’d lost all ability to _breathe_ – to **_exist_** …

And Clay was fucking _useless_.

He didn’t just feel like a wasteful piece of shit – he **_was_** one …

As long as he lived, he knew he’d never forget those raspy breaths of air, the curve of bone-thin fingers, and the last cognizant words Justin ever spoke ringing in his ears ‘P-Protect _her_ … p-promise …” just before he fell into a sleep he never re-emerged from. Clay never even had a chance to promise before Justin was closing his eyes – and **_out_**.

Was it a _burden_? A **_curse_**?

Clay was past the point of _damaged_ – he’d wavered past the line and well beyond, into the _peak_ of insanity.

How could he do that? **_Protect_** Jess? Clay hadn’t even protected _Hannah_ the way he should have – and now there was this _new_ responsibility. What if he fucked _this_ up, too?

Jess hadn’t moved an inch since the funeral. Wrapped in Justin’s jersey, Justin’s boxers and shirt donned along with it, Jess had laid in **_silence_**.

It was a comfort to her, to lay in the bed Justin once laid in … to touch the things he’d touched …

Clay knew _that_ grief well … he understood it on a level he could never transcribe into languid words and sentences.

It was the kind of grief that pushed well past your bones and threatened the very walls of your heart.

It was the grief of a **_soulmate_** , forever parted from their _other_ half.

They both had half a soul, now. They were both frayed and tattered at their edges – completely _without_ direction.

Clay hadn’t left the room – he’d watched for four hours, perched on a chair, the very depths of his skin crawling with concern – with _ruin_ – **_anxiety_** …

And she had _let_ him – **_watch_**.

She let him for so long that he almost believed they’d been consumed by their silence – by their interwoven _brokenness_.

He was about to move – stand and go through the motions of what he’d decided needed to be a normal routine, action (even if he was yet to decide what it would be just yet) when Jess broke their long winding, silence.

“Lay down with me …” her voice was so meager he could almost claim he _didn’t_ hear it – but he **_did_**.

He heard the low-level crackle that betrayed her endless tears, and the echoing sadness that clung to her – skin and bones.

There wasn’t a second of hesitation in his legs. His feet carried him on cue to the edge of what had been Justin’s bed just a month ago.

Tucked on his side, Clay’s misty-blue eyes met her hazel ones. Hers were swimming with tears and he doubted there could ever be an ocean large enough to cry them all into.

Neither of them had need for words, after that. He knew without her telling him, what she hankered for. The cusp of his sheltering arms. The same comfort he would always regret denying Hannah the night his world – _their high school’s_ _world_ – completely ripped apart at the seams.

It was a long time that he offered her such close, comfort – **_contact_**.

The one thing Justin asked of him – was to _fend_ for her in his absence – Clay could do no less. He _owed_ Jess, for the night of her party – he’d **_always_** owe her for that.

Time ticked by with each second a torturous remnant of what they had both lost in Justin. Clay a _brother_ – Jess a **_soulmate_**.

“C-Clay?” Jess searched the bareness of his eyes – the tired rings under them both.

“Mm?” he hadn’t trusted his voice in hours – he figured it might crack if he tried to use it. He never expected the heaviest question since Justin died, to emerge from her petals.

“D-Does Justin live inside **_you_** now? Like Monty … Like B-Bryce?”

The chill that encompassed his spine and surged in his pit and core sweltered him. Sweats broke out on his forehead; his pupils fell to pinpoints. He’d told her that in confidence … about the other personalities of the dead that he harbored inside of him.

He forced himself to use his voice now, there was no choice in the matter, “I don’t—”

“Clay …” she cut him off before he could really provide an answer, ice-cold fingers hurried to cup his cheeks, “… he is **_my_** Hannah …”

Those words struck a chord in him, that pushed and _bruised_ him.

The surface of his skin felt like a hollow bruise of open shadow and ache – and he didn’t _want_ to face what she was asking … What he understood in his heart – _mind_ – what she was **_truly_** asking of him.

And it was more than that … it was this gape of blood and truth in his heart – in his **_soul_** – and he knew the answer. It was under his skin – and part of his make-up.

“Jess—” his voice cracked and broke, in a half-sob.

“I don’t want to **_feel_** , C-Clay …” her eyes are despondent while she says it and there’s this purr in her touch – this coax and muddle of flesh and scalding, open wounds.

Justin asked him to _protect_ her – but what did that mean? **_Protection_**?

He felt such a shameful twinge inside when he fell into the emotional wreckage of all there had been. Echoes of Hannah’s thoughts wrangled in Clay’s psyche. How much _prettier_ Jess was than her … and Clay thought of _Hannah_ – he thought of how jealous she’d have been if she had witnessed him this way – curled in this protective heap with Jess.

Would it have been **_jealousy_**? Or confirmation of her belief that Jess was _preferable_ to her?

This felt like a betrayal of Hannah – but was it **_also_** a betrayal of Justin if he were to up and leave? If he just _couldn’t_ … couldn’t do **_that_** …

He shivered under the burden of Jess’s tainted plea. He could _feel_ Justin in this room – he could hear the muddle of his thoughts and the **_press_** of him in this bed – the _want_ for the girl he **_loved_** …

Jess lowered her hands, twiddled and pressed her fingers against the soft fabric of Clay’s hastily thrown on, shirt. After the funeral he’d thrown on this old murky-brown shirt and a pair of boxers. She’d had her back to him on the bed – he doubted she’d even seen him change – or _noticed_.

The thin fabric allowed her touch to push through – to **_burn_** through. It was this emptiness – this taint – that goaded him toward a decision.

The walls of his heart – his splintered **_soul_** – leaned toward Jess. Clay _loved_ Jess, he’d always love her, but there was this heavy divide between the love of **_soulmates_** and the love of **_friendship_** – of **_understanding_**.

Someone forgot to alert his body to that difference, however.

Just the graze of her lonely touch spurned this deep-seeded arousal in him. Like a vagrant wanderer, his prick had a mind all its own.

“Jess, I … I **_c-can’t_** …” it was a weak excuse from his tortured lips.

What **_did_** they have now, but each other?

This comfort could be theirs – **_solely_** – no one had to know – or really … what did it _matter_ if anyone **_did_**?

They were crushed under the weight of all of this devastating loss. _Both of them_. What was gossip now? It would roll off their skin like _air_ – **_water_**.

The feel of torture – of _emotion_ – weighed heavy on Clay’s spirit and he felt crushed under Jess’s words – her **_skin_** that warmed Justin’s clothes. It occurred to him, distantly, that Justin would _never_ warm this bed again, never wear _those_ clothes … never **_comfort_** , again.

Red circles rimmed Jess’s eyes, and the weathered expression on her face aged her years past her current one. Clay listened to the shaky hitch in her breath when one of her hands strayed lower on his shirt, to his abdomen, over the part of him detached from the emotional wasteland in his heart.

He keened in a high, whimpered sound, the second her fingers cupped and kneaded his erection.

“It’s just **_us_** here, Clay …” she sighed out a stifled breath, “The dead can’t _say_ how we cope …”

He didn’t know what _this_ was – was it _coping_? Was **_he_** coping? Or was it something so sick **_– so warped_** – he’d never quite be able to live with himself, after? Would it be another action his mind concealed from him? – **_Repressed_**?

If the dead didn’t **_have_** a say, why did it feel like they were all around him? Closing in – touching his skin and whispering in his ears?

“ _Fuck_ …” he groaned in a tremble of flesh and blood. The touch of her triggered this hungry ache that he’d felt since **_Hannah_**. Since _that_ night, **_with_** Hannah.

Clay had attempted every conceivable response to this formidable ache. He’d drank, stole kisses, and allowed Monty to take the reins and help him to lose his virginity.

Nothing subsided this hollow gouge in him. It wasn’t reparable, at least, nothing he’d done **_so_** _**far**_ had been able to heal it, and Clay didn’t know how to tell Jess that.

Tell her this wouldn’t _fix_ her – wouldn’t _heal_ her … not even _remotely_ …

“I’m not asking for your _heart_ , Clay …” her words were toneless – and filled with this discernible emptiness.

He didn’t know how to feel about his body right now – the betrayal of his tumid cock – the want in his veins to bury his shame in her … What is **_wrong_** with him? He can’t prevent the response he gives.

“Just my _soul_ …” Clay spilled a few tears, felt the hot tracks down his cheeks, and pushed his nose into hers. He could almost taste her lips; they were right on top of each other – but not yet touching. He didn’t think he could close the gap. He didn’t want to be _that_ guy …

The guy Hannah used to talk about – **_that_** _asshole_ …

“Not _that_ , either …” Jess’s lips quivered, he could feel the little movements, “… we both know Hannah took that with her when she left … same as Justin took _mine_ …”

His eyelids flicked to a close, sweltering heat piled under his shirt and wrung out his skin. He felt that crushing sensation – that panic and anxiety … it was always there, trying to **_control_** him.

“Jess …” he tried again, but couldn’t quite make the words come out.

She must be able to feel him trembling – like he can feel her lips quiver – like he can feel her flush heat.

“ _Please_ …” she whispers just before closing the gap.

It’s that tiny flutter of movement that sends him propelling over the brink. If Justin could ever forgive him for this – he’d pray for it. And Hannah – he’d always meant for his first time to be with Hannah – Clay didn’t count his first time as Monty, **_his_** first.

“Mm—” he makes a noise in his throat from the sensation of her soft lips on his. He can’t take her fondling of his throbby manhood. The excitement she’s spurning, feels like it might just burst and spill his seed into his boxers. He squirms and pushes a hand between them, to wrench hers _away_ from his _need_. It isn’t forceful, but its enough to make her flinch a little.

He can feel it in her kiss – taste it, even.

His protective instincts step in and he draws back from the kiss enough to utter a few shaky words, “’Mm sorry, Jess … Didn’t mean to …” he means those words, too.

Clay knows what she fears in men – he understands it with all his heart. He’s always been the reason why she’s like this, now. If he’d just **_stayed_** with Hannah …

He forces himself **_not_** to think about that.

“It’s okay … you’re a _virgin_ … and I was getting you too excited … I didn’t think …” she admitted.

Clay burned with heat; cheeks inflamed with red when he thought about the shame that accompanied his inadequacy … He _isn’t_ Justin.

He knows that’s why **_she_** stops herself from saying anymore.

It would remind them both of the person between them. The person she asked him to all-but _become_ for her.

Justin was under his skin and **_inside_** his mind. He could _hear_ him there, like a beat of his heart – or a splinter of his soul. He couldn’t describe how these sentient pieces of himself incorporated into alternate versions that make up his personality. He didn’t even understand it, himself.

Brief flashes in his mind, remind him of his singular time with a girl. How he came, almost instantly just from the contact of her skin – the friction of her mound against his pelvis and balls. He could still feel that swiveling movement, if he peeks back – if he _focuses_ …

But he doesn’t want to focus, right now.

He wants his heart to stop **_breaking_** – he wants to not _feel_ like he’s a monster for wanting to push himself, balls-deep into Justin’s girl. To not feel like he’s dancing on Justin’s grave …

Clay can scent Justin on Jess – not **_just_** her skin, but the clothes of Justin’s she’s nuzzled in. They emanate with Justin’s essence – so how could he **_not_** be between them?

He can’t quite restrain himself, when she locks their lips in another kiss. It’s like this reflection of Justin pushes in on him, tells him not to be an _idiot_. Like … Justin is coaxing him into these kisses – these needs that _never_ burn out. And Clay just _wants_ …

He **_wants_** , until he’s afraid to pull away from her – until his heart is ready to beat out of him.

Jess yanks at the hem of his shirt and he helps her discard it hastily on the floor. Another jerk has his boxers just under his painfully stiff rod. He can feel his pre leaking out the tip in rivulets.

The more she persuades with her vigorous kisses, the deeper Clay falls into the whispers from Justin. He had seen how Justin was with her – how _sweet_ – **_tender_** … especially after what had happened to her.

If he pushed deep enough at that little blackness inside of him – if he **_really_** delved in deep- ** _deep_** – he knew he could uncover the layer that regarded Justin.

Clay could let himself go – _for Jess_ – for his own loneliness to finally have a homeplace.

The more he thinks about Justin – the more he starts to fade into Jess. He pushes into his memory banks, really delves in, until he’s fully submerged in sound and heat. He throbs between his thighs, thinking about the curves of Jess’s sides, and the display of her breasts after he pushes up Justin’s shirt that she’s wearing in order to get at them.

He thumbs the bud of her nipple, flicks and rubs in slow little circles. Until a sudden memory resurfaces in the back of his mind.

One where he’s just outside the window, positioned, standing in the bushes, peering through the blinds. He can see from his stance the exact position of Justin hovered over Jess, and with the window partially open he can hear the little murmurs from Justin’s lips.

Sweet coos of love and need that pass between them. And this moment is meant to be private, especially when Justin pushes slow and deep into Jess’s body. She makes these simpering little noises that have Clay’s blood rushing – _pumping_.

Maybe it stems from his virginal status – maybe his extensive need since Hannah passed – but he’d hurried to unlatch and open his jeans, pushed his hand down into the trapped heat of his boxers, and wrapped his long-stemmed fingers around his stiffy.

He’d spied and panted with a heaviness inside of him, lost himself in the push of Justin’s hips, and the cry of Justin’s name from Jess’s swollen pout.

Clay remembered how he’d spilled over his fingers, bathed his hand in his shameful release, and shuddered in the aftermath, steadying himself. Wishing he could _find_ someone – **_have_** someone – anyone … that compared to Hannah – that **_was_** Hannah.

And, in that moment, he’d wanted a love like _Justin’s_ love. He’d been so stricken with jealousy – so completely lost in it all – **_consumed_**.

It had been that inane sense of shame and self-disgust for creeping on them through his and Justin’s bedroom window that had him seal that memory away – but it resurfaced now in order to feed into the fantasy he was concocting in his head.

He pushes his hips forward and Jess falls onto her back with a low-level thud and he cups her cheek, daintily brushes the skin with his fingertips. Then connects their lips. This time it’s _his_ choice – **_his_** prerogative.

And he clamors on top of her with his need still bulged out at a point, boxers still midway up his thighs, and he makes quick work of pulling them the rest of the way off and kicks them to the floor.

Something in him has broken – _shattered_ – and maybe it’s because of Justin’s death, or maybe because Jess is under him and he finds this attraction to her, but it’s inescapable.

This is inescapable.

Clay tilts his head forward, kisses trails at her neck, and finds that he wants to burrow underneath her skin and reside in her. Live in her …

This kind of shame will never leave him and he decides that in this moment. His shame for wanting Jess – for needing her. For letting her need him and have him, when Hannah never got to.

He drew on what he remembered from his secret spying on their intimacy and let himself partially detach – let Justin drive.

“It’s always gonna be you and me, Nancy, right?” his tone lowered, skin prickled and burned – but he let it in. He let the shame in.

Jess was silent for a moment – unmoving – still as a corpse. Her brows drew together, eyes danced with a hint of confusion – then sudden understanding filled them. Jess’s eyes widened then turned to that of longing.

“Clay? Is that still _you_ in there …?” in any other circumstance her question would have been **_ridiculous_** , but in this one instance – it was necessary.

And Clay _could_ see her – **_feel_** her – but he was no longer the one driving. He wasn’t in _control_ , anymore.

“What do _you_ think?” he answered, with a nudge of her nose with his and a sobering kiss to her lips, that perfectly mimicked Justin’s kisses.

Jess returned the kiss with fevered passion – and he had to steel himself against becoming too excited.

This was the most action this body had had since Monty was in control and now that Justin was, Clay wanted to do right by Jess – he wanted to last, like the ‘ ** _real_** ’ Justin would last.

He kissed at the line of her neck, when their mouths broke away from each other, and he whined when her fingers traced up into his hair and interwove into the strands.

“Sid … **_my_** Sid …” she breathed against the shell of his ear.

A smile spread across his lips and this sudden cockiness came over him.

“You didn’t think you’d get away from me that easily, did you, Jess?” he asked, with a little tease to his tone.

Clay can hear his own mouth saying the words, but he can’t quite believe how sure he sounds of himself – how put together. Like Justin always had been.

Tears rim her eyes and spill over in an ocean – and he reaches up to swipe at them, little coos of consolation immediately emerge.

“Don’t cry, Jess. Please don’t cry … this is what you want isn’t it? You want me to be the one that touches you … that kisses you …” he dips his head and steals a quick kiss, “… not Clay …” he muses with that trademark smile drawn on his lips.

Clay has always been inadequate – and he can’t ever compare with Justin. Deep down he knows that. But he’d try anything – allow anything – even if it breaks him to do it, because Justin asked him to with his final breath. And because Jess **_asked_** him to.

‘ _Protect **her** … promise …_’ And Clay would – _always_.

“It is … I _do_ …” she falters and he watches with a tenderness in his eyes – this infectious glint that never quite went away in Justin.

“So then, there’s no need to cry,” he says in a persuasive hum, “ _I’m_ not a virgin, after all.”

Clay would have blushed if he’d been the one to say those words – but he wasn’t – and his body doesn’t respond to his moods right now.

She laughs despite herself and it’s the first time she’s smiled in days. Since the real Justin was here. Clay knows that must be true.

“You’re _not_ , huh?” she muses.

His skin heightens to her touch as she strokes her fingers along his sides and across his back.

He reaches for the boxers on her bottom-half and peels them down. But she clings to his Letterman jacket and shirt, and there’s this look in her eye that tells him not to force her out of them – so he leaves them on.

Clay understands, even if his counterpart doesn’t. Jess wants the scent of Justin on her skin right now – the **_real_** Justin. Clay’s body is just a disproportionate _shadow_ of Justin – just a **_pretender_**.

He can’t be the real thing. He can **_never_** be that.

“You know I’m not,” he responds, casually, “or do I need to remind you of **_all_** the ways I’m not?”

Jess lifts her arms, snakes them around his neck and pulls him down, into a kiss. He returns it aggressively, while still playing at tender, before retracting.

“Remind me,” she breathes and her face has turned serious, jaw has locked in a clench, while her eyes rim with unshed tears. Clay understands what she’s pleading for. The bent and brokenness that has defined her in Justin’s absence, has clawed at them both. Its left marks under their skin that scratch and bite and burn. Every second a little more of her memory of Justin leaves her – just as Clay’s memories leave him.

Clay wants to comfort her through this _harrowing_ window into her inner-soul … but he’s not driving. He lets his body do the work – let’s **_his_** Justin do the work …

“ _Jess_ …” he sighs in a caring fold of personality, that confidence flickers for just a moment, and maybe a bit of Clay peeks through in this moment – maybe a part of him **_has_** to … but when his lips leave hers, that moment has passed and the confidence seeps back in.

With the moment broken, he pries apart her thighs in a swift arc against the mattress and sheets. Then, meets her eyes while he pushes his mouth into her sweet-tasting cunt. He laps at her juices, finds her wet and _aching_ down there. And he plods over her nub with his tongue, remembering the way Justin did it that night, from where Clay had stood at the window and _mimics_ it.

Jess fists his hair and juts her hips this way and that, as little mewls of pleasure disperse from her kiss-swollen lips. He watches as their eye contact breaks and Jess throws back her head to bask in the pleasure and thrill of this encounter.

Her hand releases his hair, when he abandons her sex to kiss at her thighs, then up to her stomach, waist, breasts … He’s tasted and fondled every inch of her, he can. And he finds his throbbing need is more needy than ever. The tumid thing is uncontainable and Clay wants the ache _gone_ – even as a _passenger_ in his own body – he just wants this soul-crushing **_ache_** to leave.

It’s _always_ here. Always _torturing_ him.

 _Hannah_ left it. This **_torturous_** ache.

“ _Fuck_ … Jess … I **_need_** you …” he groans out in little bursts of air, and their eyes connect, after he comes to lay down on top of her. Their flesh meets bare all the way up to her breasts, where Justin’s shirt has been pushed up past them and now lays in a bunch at her chest.

“Need you, _too_ …” she all-but whines in her throat, now just as worked up as he is. He can see her clit, swollen and throbbing, can practically _feel_ her nerves radiating in time with his. And the smell of her sex is thick in the air.

This moment is **_everything_** – it’s the final push past a threshold … past a breaking point of pain and build-up. Clay’s too anxious to take when he has needs – he **_isn’t_** Bryce – he doesn’t care what the _echo_ of Bryce told him at that college frat party, to the contrary. He could _never_ rape – never _wound_ that way …

So, instead – he _aches_. It’s a reminder of what he wanted to give to Hannah, what he’d planned to give to Hannah. A fierce reminder of how he **_still_** loves her. But he’s decided that he loves Jess, too. He can give himself to her and _love_ her – love her enough to be at some kind of twisted _peace_ with the ache subsided. At least for _tonight_ – at least for **_now_** – and Jess is _here_. He trusts her with his first time – his **_real_** first time.

He’s _here_ – even as a passenger to **_his_** Justin – he’s here in the _moment_ with her – with **_them_**. With the damned _ghost_ of Justin in this bed – _right now_.

And he wants to _tell_ Jess that. He wants her to _feel_ him – **_Clay_** – once he’s inside of her and they’re made one, as much as he wants her to feel _Justin_. He wants her to be churned up in this as much as he is. Confused and broken – but made **_whole_** by his sacrifice.

He rivaled with Justin for Hannah’s affections, first, and lost. Clay realizes in this moment he’s _always_ fought with Justin – and **_lost_**. Their final battle was with AIDS and he lost that round, too.

Justin isn’t _here_ anymore – he’s with **_Hannah_**.

Justin asked him before he went – if there was a message he could pass on to Hannah. And Clay had sobbed for ten minutes after that and told him to tell her he was _sorry_ , that he **_loved_** her … more than she could possibly imagine …

And he did.

Everything he was, always churned inside and collectively came back to Hannah Baker.

Clay pushes through, for just a second, wrestles his way from the darkness into the forefront and slides one of his hands into Jess’s, twining their fingers he squeezes, down into Justin’s pillow, for reassurance.

“He asked me to take _care_ of you … and I always will, Jess … I **_always_** will,” Clay breathed in a husk near her ear.

He draws back up just enough to see her tear-filled eyes and feels her squeeze his hand in a raw second of anguish, then utter a single word, “Clay …” it’s not a question, it’s a statement. She knows he’s there – he’s doing this for her – for Justin – for Hannah …

“Yeah, we’re **_both_** here,” he answers softly, and Jess lets out a curbed little sob.

When he lets his counterpart drive again, this time, he doesn’t beckon her to stop crying – he lets her, let _it_ in.

He delves between their bodies, helps guide his leaky, _pulsating_ need (swollen and angry red as it is) to her dripping sex.

It’s all that’s left, to give in to whatever _this_ is … this sickness that has made a home between them.

Unlike Clay, his counterpart doesn’t hesitate – he takes – and purveys a kiss from her petals.

It’s frigid and hot at the same time. At least that’s how it _feels_ to Clay’s body. He wants to scream with the need that supplies his ache, when he plunges into her submerged depths. The combination of her wet, tight, heat and his inflamed, leaking, need – is _indescribable_.

He’s pumping his hips and breathing large gasps of air, until his lungs _burn_ with it. He wants to last – and he _tries_ to last this time, but he’s out of his own control. He’s out of even his **_driver’s_** control. It’s his _body_ that’s taken over. Untouched for too long, and with this epidermis of his that prickles with sensation from _every_ graze of intimate friction across the landscape of her body, with his.

It’s all a mess. It’s messy and erotic and _wrong_.

Most of **_all_** , _wrong_.

Clay’s mind screams at him about just _how_ wrong, all the while, Justin’s scent lingers like a vice in the air. Judging, watching – listening to the soundtrack in the atmosphere that represents their lustful shame and combined needs.

Jess just doesn’t want to hurt anymore – and neither does Clay.

What’s so wrong with not wanting to hurt anymore? It’s what _Hannah_ wanted … What _Justin_ wanted … Yet, Clay knows its still a wrong and fucked up somehow …

He pushes more ferocious kisses to Jess’s lips and tastes her tears as they spill down her cheeks and taint her lips.

Clay doesn’t even know if Justin’s still the driver or if he’s the driver now. It all feels oddly static and unimportant right now. He just wants to lose himself in the pavilion of Jess’s frame. He wants to close his eyes and do some pretending of his own and he does.

He pretends it’s Hannah, for just a second, he sees Hannah’s face and drowns in the sensation of it.

“Justin …” it’s a whine and barely perceptible when mixed with the other sounds of contentment from her parted lips – but it’s real.

And the sound of it makes him ache bone-deep. For her – for them – for Justin – because he’s never coming back.

And they can pretend and seek comfort in this perverted solace as much as they want, but Clay knows it won’t bring him back. Nothing can do that.

And maybe it’s not just perverse that she names the ghost between them, but that, that name is what sends him tumbling over the brink, seconds after.

“Jess … I c-can’t … Oh **_God_** —!” he can’t keep it together. He can’t cling to anything but her in the wake of all this.

His hips plunge in deep, skin flares and ruptures with this easing buzz, and he feels his balls empty. He grunts, while her hungry walls clench and spasm, and his seed makes a home inside her – and vaguely it registers that Justin never _did_ that … never claimed her with his seed. This is a luxury Justin never chanced. He hasn’t thought of a condom, but neither has Jess. It doesn’t matter to them right now – they’re both reaching for something to **_live_** for.

Clay is grasping for straws, trying to pick up whatever shattered pieces he can find – but he can never hope to piece the mirror back together again, it’s irreparably shattered into little splinters.

“ ** _Hannah_** …” the name slips out, and Clay realizes his counterpart has _vanished_. It’s just **_him_** driving now – just **_him_** pumping into Jess and trying to be **_her_** Justin.

Maybe the name slip proves they are _both_ incontrovertibly lost. That no matter how hard he tries to be _her_ Justin and she accepts it, that it will never be _right_. Clay’s not handsome – he doesn’t like his appearance and never will – he’s scrawny and gross and he doesn’t fucking know what to do about Jess.

So, he’s trying – in proverbial _Clay_ fashion – he’s **_trying_**.

Jess doesn’t get mad at him for it. Clay feels her squeeze his hand and kiss his neck with a soft peck, and he breaks down in her arms.

They break down **_together_**.

The pleasure they felt at their shared peak, begins to subside on both ends, and the duller the lingering ache becomes, the more it hurts to let that part of him go.

Jess’s body is shuddering under his and Clay hears her sobs in his heart – in his **_bones_** – then with his own ears.

He finds himself _touching_ her.

It’s all he _can_ do. **_Touch_**.

He releases her hand without a second thought, and explores the curves of her body. Rubs her skin wherever he finds room. Claims her with his touch and tries to soothe the endless mourning that has ruthlessly claimed her, before him. He wants to protect her from it, in the way he hasn’t been able to protect himself from the mourning of _Hannah_ – of **_Justin_**. He wonders idly, if that’s what Justin asked of him in those last seconds of consciousness. If he’d act as a _shield_ for Jess – against **_this_**.

The mourning that will seek to claim her _soul_.

Clay connects their lips, this time it’s sad and broken.

He isn’t confident like **_his_** Justin. And he isn’t whole in the way he might be, if Hannah hadn’t _died_ – if he’d never **_met_** her, at all.

“It’s o-okay … it’s okay, C-Clay …” she sobs out the words in a sort of trail of sobs and meaning, while squeezing him tight in a grip of _death_.

He shivers up his spine, beginning at his tailbone, and makes a low keen in his throat.

Clay feels empty and hollow, while also riddled with shame and guilt at the same time. He feels so much – _so fucking much_ – and he wants to feel _nothing_.

Nothing would be better than **_this_**.

And he remembers Hannah’s voice in his head. He wonders if this is how he will survive – _they will_. Because part of him doesn’t know how many more of his dead classmates he can bear to survive.

He suddenly realizes that he’s let Jess **_in_**.

She’s sheltered with him and carved her initials on the muscle of his heart even if he can’t see it for himself – he can _feel_ it there. It’s **_eternal_** , now. If he loses her, that will be it. He can’t handle another death – another splinter of loss. Even a tiny seemingly insignificant _fragment_ will do him in.

It hurts too much to keep **_doing_** this. **_Mourning_**.

“J-Jess … Mm sorry … I’m s-sorry …” he sobs out the words in a high-pitched noise and he wonders if he should be apologizing to Justin, instead.

She sympathizes – he can feel her hard-pressed emotions like sin under her surface.

“Shh … Don’t be sorry … not for _feeling_ , Clay … not for feeling _Hannah_ … No one ever let you grieve her this way – not the way you’re letting me grieve, Justin … and you never got to feel her, Clay … not like you wanted … like you should have …” her voice sounds so certain, even through her tears. It trembles, but doesn’t break. He shivers and whimpers like a little boy in her embrace, cracking more and more by the second.

“I l-let him in, J-Jess … for y-you …” Clay breathed in cracks and echoes, while he mulls over what she’s said, because it’s a lot to respond to, to put into words, “… t-this was meant t-to be for y-you … not _m-me_ …” he wants her to understand – needs to try and _make_ her.

Jess leans in, close, though. She kisses him with a little flourish and battles through her own tears to keep whispering to him.

“It doesn’t have to be. It can be for **_both_** of us, Clay …” she soothed through her own broken sniffles, while one of her hands disconnected from around his neck to cup and stroke around his cheek, “… you _need_ Hannah … and you’ve burned for her since she left …” Jess’s spare hand wandered down his side, stroking, working into his skin there, then brushed across the cusp of his pelvis, dragged over his thin dusting of hair down there, until she had him shivering from the ambiance.

“I’ll n-never stop … **_loving_** _her_ …” he sniffles, still trying to collect himself around his excruciating pain.

Jess nods, two more tears track down her cheeks in solidarity, “I know, Clay. _Your_ kind of love … _Hannah’s_ kind of love … that **_doesn’t_** die,” she whispers, “just like Justin’s and mine won’t … **_ever_**.”

Clay feels that familiar jealousy, bubble up in him for Justin. Because Justin **_did_** have that … a real, beautiful, companionable sort of love …

Clay was lonely when he was friends with Hannah and lonely still with her gone.

This is his first, real lack in loneliness – being here, with Jess …

And its haunted by the shadow of his adopted brother – of Justin. Because it’s more than jealousy inside him right now, it’s guilt and remorse for staking this needy claim on Jess, while Justin’s barely cold in the ground.

“It f-feels like I’ve b-betrayed him … J-Justin …” he speaks to the shame he feels. He gives it a name and a face …

Jess tilts up her chin and the same despondency from earlier makes a sudden return, “Is it _betrayal_?” she asks, tonelessly, “Or is it how we **_survive_** this?”

He shivers and wets his lips with a drag of his tongue, while eyeing her lips, desperate to know the answer with clarity – but finds only fogginess and steep ambiguity.

“It’s the _only_ way we **_survive_** this …” Clay finally answers and its his first bit of certainty since Justin died – even if he’s lost in the deep and stumbling around for his footing, this is the answer he’s come to.

They survive by clinging to each other until the rain stops pouring – until time no longer matters. Until everything is right again.

Clay starts to move, ready to finally separate their cooling body parts, but Jess winds her arms back around his waist and clings to him like he’s her life-vest.

“D-Don’t …” she breathes and he makes a hiss through his teeth at the little flutter of sensitivity in his nearly flaccid cock. “Sleep with me … like _this_ …” she pleads and Clay’s eyes interlock with hers.

Something unspoken passes between them – Clay can feel it – but he isn’t quite sure what it is – or what it means.

Does it pertain to the _coping_? The _mourning_? Or the ghost of Justin?

He doesn’t know the answer – and doesn’t seek to find it – because he’s suddenly so tired that he _needs_ to sleep.

It’s more than a need, it’s his body compelling him towards it. It starts in his muscles that swelter with ache and ends in his mind, where his eyes are pulled to a close.

He settles into Jess, with a sleepy nod and a single mumble, “Mm’kay …” he sighs and kisses her temples, because it’s close to his lips.

He doesn’t wait for her response, because his mind doesn’t allow him the luxury to. And he fades into sleep – just like that.

He lets it all go – and allows his mind to stop wondering, about what is and isn’t – and just let what is, **_be_** – **_Exist_**.

It’s what they have now – it’s what they **_are_**.

* * *

Their days are interwoven together.

It’s like a permanent stasis of day with night – black with light.

Clay lets the compulsion to protect Jess overtake his compulsory sense of betrayal, shame – his **_guilt_**.

The compulsions dominate and so does **_his_** Justin. He lets him take the helm sometimes, when Jess is _most_ broken. When he finds her crying into Justin’s pillow and she can’t move any other way, than to hear Justin _speak_.

Hannah still stalks his mind, like this forgone essence that he can’t quite grab onto and will never quite understand – but that’s okay.

At least he tells himself it is, because it’s what he _can_ do.

Jess is _here_ – and she’s flesh, blood – and _warmth_.

And Hannah’s in the ground and even if she weren’t, he probably wouldn’t have had her to himself – she’d always have been a piece of everyone that **_broke_** her – like _he_ is.

Clay gives himself to Jess, same as she gives herself to him. And every night they meet somewhere in the middle, in this _place_ where he and Justin lived as brothers – and he claims her on Justin’s bed, in Justin’s _clothes_ – and he **_feels_** Justin – he _is_ Justin, now.

For **_her_**.

And just as she promised, she’s **_his_** Hannah.

She lets him kiss and touch her – _moan_ for Hannah and finish inside her, until he thinks he might lose himself in the fantasy and never reemerge.

His parents are worried – so are _hers_.

It’s not _healthy_ for them to be alone in this garage-made-flat, together. It’s not right for them to mourn and be so imperviously close.

Clay’s started to hold her hand whenever they’re together. He can almost anticipate her breath sounds when she sleeps and her daily needs to function. They even shower together with this beautiful encompass under a burning hot stream, that feels like fire and ecstasy on their tired, worn skin. He helps her wash, often does it _for_ her, and they somehow end up with their tongues tangled together, and Jess pinned against the wall and primed to _take_ him.

Those first nights, he remembers those dreams that fought to grip him (same as they always had since Hannah) and he’d no longer wake himself. Instead, he’d wake to find Jess with her hand down his boxers, stroking and easing him into wakefulness, until he’d inevitably cum and spill over her fingers. And he’d return the favor when her dreams turned to nightmares and she’d woke him in a wild thrash and scream. He’d kiss and soothe her, until she settled, then draw her awake with the easing swirl of his artist’s fingers down Justin’s boxers.

Somewhere along the way, Clay realizes that he’s _not_ lonely anymore – that he hasn’t **_been_** lonely since Justin died, even though Justin isn’t _there_ …

And it is Jess that makes him smile again that _first_ time, with her hands in his frontal, sweatshirt pockets and a silly grin on her lips as she tells him a joke, while they lay parallel on Justin’s bed.

It’s a fitting place for them to come together and as days turn to weeks, he forgets why he **_ever_** felt shame in the first place.

Justin would _want_ them happy … wouldn’t he? Wouldn’t _Hannah_?

He fights the intervention their parents attempt to have, since neither of them are trying to go away to college anymore – neither of them wants to **_leave_** the other. And now it’s worse than unhealthy – it’s senile in their parents’ eyes.

Clay fights against them, screams and hits anyone that tries to take her. And Jess isn’t quiet either. They wind up on Justin’s bed, curled in a huddle, _together_ – sobbing until it **_stops_**. Until their parents stop trying to _pry_ them apart. And just leave them to their perverse coping methods.

Clay’s _sick_ – he disassociates into Justin and lets Jess have all she needs. Jess doesn’t see a problem with it because (he _assumes_ anyway) she’s used to crazy from being with Justin. They’re _both_ a little fucked up – but they _deal_ with it. Their _own_ way, in their **_own_** time.

It’s a Tuesday when Clay realizes he hasn’t drawn a bunny since the day after Hannah died. He’d drawn one last on a light-blue sheet of paper and posted it on her locker. Bunnies he associated with Hannah … but there had been a time when he didn’t … Mr. Poopers had sat on the shelf where his mother left him for weeks, but that day Jess had plucked him off and cuddled with him on the bed, while Clay was sketching his art – and just like that – he’d drawn a bunny – this time it was for _Jess_.

He finds the days are muddled, still, despite their subversive path toward healing and he also notes that he doesn’t really care that they are. It’s Jess that matters …

‘ _Protect her … p-promise …_ ’ rushes through his mind and all else fades to senseless matter.

And he **_protects_**. _First_ and **_foremost_**.

It’s strange how he feels this collective calm when he’s with her. How he can push his hand into hers and suddenly feel _safe_ and in the moment. He discovers that she’s his rock, he’s used her all these weeks of ‘ _protecting’_ by making a lean-to on her beach shores. And he comes to the realization that she’s _his_ protection as much as he’s **_hers_**. They shield each other from the bad that creeps into their safe space.

Somehow, there’s this light that fills their room. It seeps in through the blinds and makes them feel warm and whole – _he_ swears it’s Hannah – _she_ swears it’s Justin, and Clay decides they will probably **_never_** know who’s right. And maybe – just maybe – the answer is both. Hannah and Justin came to see them, came to make sure they were safe and happy – _together_.

Clay notices when Jess starts to pick at meals.

It’s the first thing he **_does_** notice.

Then it was sensitivity when he explored her body. She moaned and came with just a few brushes here and there, before he could even stick it in.

And she’d also ask him to hold her while she slept more often, even in the middle of the day. He’d always drop everything and go to her. Push aside his drawings in his sketchbook and nuzzle with her until they both fell into gentle dreams. Clay couldn’t remember the last time either of them had pushed through a nightmare.

They’d _both_ known their oasis might someday come with a price – but they hadn’t **_cared_**.

It was a burden to care so much and Clay would know that better than anyone.

They’d seen the signs, but pushed them off. Continued to stay in their glittery sanctuary of love and care. Clay learned Jess’s favorite things and she learned his.

They said their goodbyes when their friends shipped off to college and they stayed behind in this _shitty_ town.

Clay could care less if the town was shitty, because Jess wasn’t.

He began to see what Justin saw in Jess – the burning light that was alive in her. And he wanted to be tangled in her for as long as he could – as long as she’d let him.

At some point the pain of their losses had dwindled, because they’d taken care of each other. Clay would let his sickness take hold and Jess would revel in the reward of a second Justin emerging outwardly in him.

Clay no longer had to look to a mirror for gratification, because Jess told him everyday how handsome he was – how **_cute_** – and one day he realized that he must have just started to believe her. Because why else was she with him? Why else did she let him comfort her the way he did?

There was an attraction between them. Something complete – something wholesome.

The damaged bits had collided and there was no longer a way for either of them to see _past_ one another.

Clay’s parents still gave them offhanded looks of disapproval whenever they took the stairs, hand in hand, and climbed into a shower together. But they were evidently afraid to break Clay again if they attempted _another_ intervention. Clay knew they did. So, they left them be – let the pair of them _mourn_ however they needed.

Jess’s parents sent her money still. It would appear in her bank account and they pair of them would go shopping. Clay didn’t think about college anymore, but he’d begun to think about selling his art. He drafted piece after piece, while Jess cuddled beside him and oftentimes fell to sleep at his side, with a book in her hands.

It wasn’t _perfect_ – but it was theirs.

Jess started to grow needier and Clay would indulge her every whim. He’d let her tie him to the bed more than once, let her control the scenario between them – let **_her_** drive.

It was enough to train his body to last longer over the course of _months_. It was a game of patience – of **_learning_**. And he’d often still cum prematurely – but only when he found himself most riddled with anxiety.

Their nights were spent in searching dominion over each other. The symptoms of Jess’s only worsened and the pleasure overtook the sanity they’d built. Eventually it would have to implode on itself – everything **_always_** did.

But Clay wouldn’t let it.

Not _this_ time.

He didn’t know why he ignored it for so long – or why **_she_** did – but he finally acknowledged it one day, in the aftermath of their love making.

He was breathless and she was lazing on her side, pushed into his front, from behind. His arm had already been loosely draped over her side with his hand finding purchase in Justin’s sheets and he’d sighed into Jess’s hair, scenting hints of Justin’s cologne on the collar of his Letterman's jacket she donned every day. She had no other clothes on – just the jacket – and it was open, unbuttoned with her tumid nipples on display and the curve of her belly with it.

Clay’s hand had found its way to her abdomen, caressed and played with the bulging hump. It was slight, still. Four months … maybe _five_ … Clay had lost count by that point of how long they’d been at this … and he hadn’t really cared.

“What are we gonna do about this?” he’d found himself whispering in her ear.

It was the elephant in the room – and he’d just _named_ it.

Jess had sighed and brushed his fingers, daintily with her own, then linked their fingers together, resting them over the bump.

“It’s _ours_ , Clay … _mine_ and **_yours_** …” she’d whispered back with a shiver.

He’d kissed the base of her neck, from the side, and nudged her shoulder with his nose.

“That’s _hardly_ an answer …” he’d pressed.

She’d shrugged then and squeezed his hand with her own.

“It’s the _only_ answer that matters … It **_stays_** ,” and that was, _really,_ the _only_ answer that mattered – especially to Clay.

Because he’d caressed her there for hours after that. Kissed and sucked the line of her neck until she keened for him, rolled, and opened her legs.

That was all it’d taken for him to find his home inside of her again – for his Justin to take the reins and claim that bump for his own. In body and words.

“It’s _mine_ , too, Jess,” he’d whispered.

“I know, _Justin_ … I **_know_** ,” she’d replied, her thumb grazing his cheek.

* * *

Clay lost time in _their_ place. He really only knew what day it was, when they emerged to go grocery shopping. He’d lost the ability to cope outside of her presence – and maybe that was the whole damn problem.

They’d both become inseparable. He wanted to kiss her _every_ second – love her as much as he could – and he needed to know she was safe. Her and the little bump. He hadn’t yet called it what it _was_ – couldn’t bring himself to.

He wouldn’t believe it was coming – not until it was **_born_**.

There was too much loss – too much pain for him to allow another one in, before he knew if it was **_safe_**. Anything could happen – **_anything_**. And Clay was more determined than ever to focus on his sketching and graphic novel. He’d figured they’d need the money.

It was his parents that burst their bubble first – when they first noticed Jess’s secret. He’d been careful about sneaking them into the house for showers prior to his parents waking up – but _that_ morning they’d been later than usual – _sloppy_.

And they’d been **_seen_**.

His father had been pale-faced and silent while his mother had shouted – then _cried_.

He was ruining _his_ life – Jess’s, too – and they couldn’t understand why he didn’t see that.

Why he didn’t understand that a baby would _ruin_ his life.

The baby already had a place in his heart by that point – it was _part_ of him whether they liked it or not – and they choose **_not_** to like it.

He’d spent the day with Jess in the aftermath of his mother’s shouting, and let her cry against him, while she sheltered the bulge of her abdomen with her arm. Protecting their child, like they’d protected each other.

This was _shelter_. _Home. Warmth._ **_Love_**.

Why couldn’t his parents see how **_happy_** she’d made him? Why could they only see the _bad_ in everything? Why not the **_good_**? The light, where there had previously _only_ been dark …?

One life could ease the agony of those they **_lost_**. It was a decision they’d come to _together_ … and no one had even pretended that they understood.

They’d made a silent agreement with each other, that if it was a girl, its name was Hannah – and if it was a boy – Justin.

They figured the world needed **_more_** Justin’s and Hannah’s, after the two they’d _lost_.

Clay wished he could make everyone understand, how it felt to be the way he was, before … before Justin **_died_** … before _Jess_ and then the **_baby_** …

It’d been like falling into an ocean or _drowning_ in one. He’d never felt whole – never **_sane_** – and with Jess it was all perfect and good and _safe_ … most of all, **_safe_**.

So why did they want him to go **_back_** to that unsafe place that was neither living or dying? That crippling defeat and _loneliness_?

 _Endless **loneliness**_ …

It had no longer mattered to Clay and Jess by that point, they’d made up their collective minds.

And that first appointment they’d held each other’s hands when the ultrasound tech had rubbed gel over her lower abdomen and displayed not one, but **_two_** babies on the screen.

 ** _Twins_**.

A boy **_and_** a girl.

Jess had cried and Clay’s heart had shifted wildly until he thought he might die.

After that first-time visit, they’d watched their babies grow on the ultrasound screens from appointment to appointment, and slid their hands down over her belly in the middle of the night to feel their babies kick inside her.

Their salacious nights together had grown more intense – more **_impassioned_** – as the pressure from _both_ their parents mounted in favor for them to give _up_ their babies.

They’d already made their choice, however. Those babies were _theirs_ – and that was an **_end_** to it.

They’d taken their frustrations out, between the sheets and let the words of disapproval roll of their backs. What they had wasn’t _meant_ to be love – at least at **_first_** – but it _was_ by then.

It was a mutual _affection_ for each other – a breaking point of love and loss – and they barely understood it, so why should anyone _else_?

It just _was_.

It had just **_been_**.

They’d promised at the start that their companionship would never be more than what they **_both_** needed, but they’d come to a point where neither of them would _ever_ love again, if they _didn’t_ love one another. They were the only two that understood such soul-crushing losses as Justin and Hannah. They took **_care_** of each other. In their highest highs and lowest lows, they could cry out the names of their lost loves and not be _judged_ for their _depravity_ – not be **_corrected_**.

No one outside of the two of them, would have given **_either_** of them that.

Clay knew, because he remembered Skye – and how she’d judged him for _thinking_ about Hannah, whenever they kissed. How she’d **_hurt_** because of it, when it was never about _her_.

Clay would give Jess **_his_** Justin whenever she nudged him _from_ him – whenever she **_asked_** it of him – and he’d let Jess take and **_his_** Justin would drive until Jess wanted Clay back – because it was the _three_ of them in Justin’s bed, by that point. It’d always been the three of them since the _funeral_.

Hannah was just a _figment_ of Clay’s imagination. But Justin was **_there_**. Always _there_ … like a passenger peering through a filthy window – looking in and grasping for what he could.

That final window had closed, sealing them into this life, when Jess had gone into labor.

It’d been the middle of the night and he’d not been woken by nightmares in so long that he’d not understood what it was, when he felt her stir and cry.

He’d woken to her water breaking in Justin’s bed. The jerk of alertness came when she made a low moan in her throat from discomfort and pain. He’d felt so helpless as he rushed for her packed bag and guided her to his car.

It had been the finality of it all – the second their lives would change.

He’d been careful when he pieced the crib together at the foot of Justin’s bed a month before. They’d only bought the one, because they’d figured the twins would sleep together, same as they had in her womb. They’d gathered together everything the children would need and Jess had held his hand to keep his anxiety in check while they’d picked it all out.

His list had been extensive and his panicky moods had been in hyper-speed. But Jess had been his rock, taken the reins, and settled him, like she’d learned to. She was his solidity – his fire in a **_controlled_** burn.

The delivery had been long and seemingly _endless_. Probably more for _her_ than for **_him_** , but it’d felt like her _every_ pain – was **_his_**. He’d held her hand, kissed her lips, and tried in every fathomable manner to distract her from it all.

And it wasn’t until after, when baby Justin fell out into the doctor’s hands, that she’d been visibly elated and reached for him, even before Clay could snip the cord.

At holding their Justin, her joy had been short-lived, because soon after she’d had to push out baby Hannah, and her exhaustion had been paramount, after that.

He’d snipped the second cord and taken her picture while she’d held both their children in her arms. Sometime afterward she’d fallen to sleep, while each of them nursed at her teat.

Clay had regarded her with silent joy and tears had streamed down his face through the entire ordeal, but it wasn’t until after the nurses and doctor were gone, that he’d slid under the covers and fallen to sleep at her side, while he’d held her.

* * *

Somewhere along the line _everything_ had been warped into this broad picturesque vision of perfection.

But that was what Clay _wanted_ – the **_dream_**.

He couldn’t believe the beauty of _his_ Jess – and **_their_** babies.

Hannah with her sky-blue eyes and fair skin that mirror his and wavy wisps of hair that mirror Jess’s, and Justin with his hazel eyes that perfectly reflect Jess’s and an infectious smile that reminds him of the **_first_** Justin’s.

All those months he’d feared acknowledging the bump, that then _became_ the twins, because he’d thought something would rip Jess (or the life inside of her) away from him, _too_. But it was a **_miracle_**.

They were **_all_** safe – and most importantly, **_together_**.

There hadn’t been a _loss_ , there hadn’t been _anything_ , but the natural conclusion to a pregnancy.

The string of death was conceivably at an end, and Clay had finally begun to breathe.

He’d turned over his graphic novel for publication soon after the twins were born. He knew he’d need the money, considering the way his parents gave such disapproving looks over his lack of a college education or even a nine-to-five job to make money.

Clay had finally found this contentedness that he had forgotten how to _feel_ but must have been prevalent before Hannah’s demise. And he _found_ it – with Jess and their twins.

Their parents had come around, _eventually_. Neither could resist the smiling, happy faces of their grandbabies. Not especially, baby Justin.

He’d hoped they would come to understand, eventually, what it meant to him and Jess to _have_ one another. It wasn’t meant to be this sick, shameful thing, anymore – it hadn’t been that in a _while_ now.

Now, it was just this beholden love, sort of thing.

Clay couldn’t _define_ it, (or even what **_it_** was) but it was **_theirs_**.

Perhaps it was physical, or chemical, but it’d brought them together and made them a family – had done the impossible for Clay and healed his soul, while mending Jess’s.

Now, when he detached – it was by choice, not necessity.

Like this moment, beside Jess, a baby cradled in each of their arms, eyes trained on each other in silent comradeship, for the longest time.

Jess smiled at him with this beautiful, wide smile – and he smiled back with his own, piercing smile.

“Do you think this is a dream?” Jess asks him, baby Hannah sound asleep against her chest.

“If it is, I hope I _never_ wake up …” Clay whispers in a baited sound with a dance in his eyes, baby Justin equally unconscious in his gentle embrace.

Jess extends her hand, and he joins them, entwining their fingers, then draws hers up to plant a solid kiss to the back.

“Promise, you’ll never wake up …” Jess coaxes with a little slant to her smile.

‘ _Protect **her** … promise …_’ plays again in his mind’s eye. And he’s done that – he’s fulfilled Justin’s deathbed request. There’s not an ounce of doubt in his mind that he hasn’t …

“ ** _Promise_** ,” he answers – **_this_** _time_ – without hesitation, and she just smiles and closes her eyes.

And sometime later, they fall asleep like that – _together_ – under the sanctity of starlight shimmering through the window-slats and **_promises_**.

* * *


	2. Continuance!

**_Dear Readers,_ **

**_I have been going back to this work over and over again, wanting to add to it, so I decided to write a continuance! Flesh out a bit more of it and shine further light on how Clay and Jess get to the end point of this work!_ **

**_I further explain all of this on the new work I posted, but I wanted to make sure that those of you that subscribed to this one, on the off-chance I decide to write more, are made aware of it!_ **

**_I linked the new work to this one, as a series, and it will have different pieces of time with each part I post._ **

**_I hope you all enjoy it!_ **

**_Love,_ **

**_Beauty_Love_Stardust_ **

**_Link[HERE ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25638748)or down below to my new fiction piece._ **


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